Shades
by Garrae
Summary: The song says: "The future's so bright I gotta wear shades". Yeah, right. He should be looking at his blindingly bright future – through pitch black shades – and celebrating. He should not be hiding in his study tipping back Scotch. One-shot, after 2.05: When the Bough Breaks.


The song says: _The future's so bright I gotta wear shades_.

Yeah, right.

Castle supposes that to anyone looking from the outside his future is blindingly bright. Nikki is a blockbuster success; his bank accounts are expanding faster than a puffer fish attached to a tyre pump; his daughter's doing well in school; even his mother has stopped carping, though he still can't get her to move out.

So he should be absolutely ecstatic. He should be looking at his blindingly bright future – through pitch black shades – and celebrating. He's top of the best-seller list by miles and _Heat Wave_ only went on sale today: everyone who is anyone came to the launch party and even Paterson had to offer congratulations, albeit through gritted teeth. He should be wearing shades because his life and future are brighter than the sun: he's the hottest ticket in town and the next James Bond writer. He's got every writer's dream gig.

He should not be hiding in his study tipping back Scotch, looking blankly at his laptop and trying not to weep in furious frustration.

Sure, he'll be wearing shades tomorrow.

He'll be wearing shades because he already knows he won't be sleeping and his eyes will be red-rimmed and bloodshot and the way he's knocking his Scotch back he'll have one hell of a hangover.

He just can't see how it all went so wrong, so fast. One minute she's all soft eyed and even a little emotional about the dedication, and the next minute she's telling him he can't write and they're fighting and then they both stalked off.

He can see her now: in that tiny little navy dress, at least four inches above the knee, with some very intriguing zips and lack of back: matching peep-toe stilettos with an even higher heel than usual. She'd looked utterly gorgeous: scorching hot. He _wasn't_ a shoe fetishist, but her stilettos… well, that's sex on stilts.

 _She's so bright he's gotta wear shades_ , he thinks bitterly, and downs another mouthful, and another, and another.

And then, temper fuelled up on single malt Scotch, sexual frustration and the wounding blow to his pride, he walks out.

* * *

 _The future's so bright he's gotta wear shades_.

Yeah, right.

Beckett slams her door behind her in furious, ready-to-cry frustration and slams back three measures of neat vodka which stop her even thinking about kicking her heels off.

She'd got all dressed up in a knock-him-dead outfit, been really moved by the dedication – and then he'd announced that he'd got no reason not to take his James Bond offer and he might as well have punched her in the gut. It really was just about book sales. Write Nikki, sell Nikki, make zillions. No real connection at all. And he hadn't even noticed how much he'd hurt her. Okay, so she's got pride in Pacific-ocean-loads, and she'd covered the instant pain with snark, but then he'd said that Nikki had no depth as a character, and that had been that. She's just been a cardboard cut out whom he doesn't want to know at all. So she'd hit back. If he doesn't want her, fuck it; she doesn't want him either.

She slams back another shot of vodka, and welcomes the burn. She can always wear shades tomorrow to cover the hangover. And her future in the NYPD will be a whole lot brighter without Rick-asshole-Castle following her around. For a start, no-one will be betting on whether they're sleeping together. No, they are not. Nor will they be. All he wanted was a slutty cop. That's not her.

More vodka hits the back of her throat. No Castle means she can concentrate one hundred percent on her job without needing to make sure some dumb civilian doesn't get hurt or shot. She can get on with being the best cop in town without any distractions at all. Her future's brighter without him.

Which makes it utterly ridiculous that she's utterly miserable about what he said and what he's going to do.

She's just pouring herself another shot when there's a fusillade on her door. Seeing as she's already fuelled up on vodka, sheer hurt and fury, she stalks over, heels hammering on the floor, and yanks it open.

Castle barrels in and slams the door behind him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses, incandescently furious. "You've got a new character so get lost."

"That doesn't mean you get to ruin _my_ launch party and insult my writing," he grates back.

"You're the one who said Nikki had no depth. Well, I got plenty depth so it must be your writing that makes her flat."

"If you got plenty depth how come you never show any of it to me?"

"Because you're not interested. All you want is your flat, slutty character."

"Maybe if you ever opened up I'd have something to base a better character on!"

"Maybe if you didn't make it clear you weren't interested I might have!"

Voices are rising.

"I made it clear I was interested in your story and you threw me out."

"No, you went nosing into something I told you not to touch and I did exactly what I said I would."

He steps closer. She doesn't back down.

"Yeah. I shouldn't have looked. I should have found a better character right then."

She gasps. "That's what you think?"

"Yeah. You don't do emotion and you don't do anything but solve cases and stomp round in those heels. Characters need a story. You don't wanna share your story. You don't wanna share anything. You never wanted me in the precinct, so I'm going somewhere else."

"Fine. You only ever wanted some bimbo cut out anyway. You weren't interested in anything other than getting me into bed and when I wouldn't put out you stopped caring. You didn't want the story, you just wanted sex. James Bond will suit you down to the ground. All he cared about were faceless bimbos too. You'll be able to write it in your sleep."

"Getting you into bed? I don't write dedications like that to wannabe one night stands. I made it perfectly clear" –

"So clear that you're leaving for a more lucrative character?"

"You didn't want me to stay. You said I _should_ accept it. _You_ said you'd be fine if I didn't write another Nikki because _you_ never wanted it written in the first place and it only brought you grief. So shoot me for taking you at your word."

"You said you had no reason not to accept it. That's not exactly enthusiastic about any more Nikki. I'm not gonna force you to stay if you wanna do something else. So shoot _me_ for taking _you_ at your word."

She glares right into his face. He glares right back.

"So that's it," he grates. "You're pissed that I won't write about you."

"You're pissed that I don't want you to."

"Liar."

"Am not. You're the liar."

"Are so. If you'd said" –

"Said?" she yells. "Said what?" She puts on a sugary, insincere tone. "Oh please write about me, Rick. I really want to be a two-dimensional bimbo from a bad action movie." She returns to infuriated hissing. "'Cause according to you I got no character. Well, I don't beg. I'm not gonna try to convince you."

"Oh yeah? I put exactly what I thought of your character in the dedication and you're acting like that doesn't mean a thing."

"'Cause it doesn't. If you thought that you'd have been able to find more depth in Nikki. Like I said, you just want a slut with a gun."

"At least then I might have managed to get you to go on a date," Castle yells. "You turned me down flat every single time and now you're claiming _I_ don't want _you_. The hell with that" –

And the world stops turning, because he's kissing her.

He's kissing her, and she can taste Scotch and fury and passion: his hand is in her hair and the other pressing her against him and she's still so mad with him but she can't stop responding in kind: a furious, angry battle of mouths and a sharp, punishing nip on his full lower lip which is met and matched by his invasion.

He's still so mad with her but he couldn't have stopped kissing her if the world ended around them: both of them totally fired up and he angles her head and kisses her _hard_ ; bringing his hand round to open the zip with a sharp tug and zing and her leg comes up around his waist and those _heels_ are still on because he can feel one digging into his thigh and _oh that hurts so good_ and his hand is inside her dress and cupping her breast and she arches into him and fights for his mouth and somehow his shirt is open and dropping from his shoulders and he leaves her breast and cups her ass instead and hoists her up to be right where she should be and walks her backwards to push her down on her back on her bed.

In all that time they haven't unlocked their lips for an instant: exchanging furious, feral kisses; far more of a fight than a flirtation.

With her lying down, Castle can use both hands to strip away the scrap of dress and leave her in midnight underwear and heels; as dark as his intent, stormy eyes; and still never leave her mouth. She scrapes down his back with vicious nails, which only winds him higher. He quits her mouth and nips sharply down on her clavicle; doesn't soothe it but takes her breast into his mouth and suckles roughly, tugging, nipping as those nails bite down. He's not gentle. _She's_ not gentle: pinned beneath him but still fighting for control; those magnificent legs around him and the stilettos digging in to try and give her the leverage to roll them.

Hell, no. He's on top and he's _staying_ there. He settles full weight on her and pins her hands by her head and he'll _win_ this fight, by hook, crook, trickery or sex. She'll want him: oh yes, she'll scream and moan and whimper and _beg_ him and there will be no more lying, deceptive don't-care or I-don't-want-you or _anything_ that isn't _yes Castle more Castle yours Castle_ and _then_ he'll have the depth of her character: all the way to the bottom of her oceanic depths, oh yes. Because he knows perfectly well that she's deeper than the Marianas Trench, and he's going to plumb it all.

She doesn't stop fighting to be on top, not for an instant, but she sure isn't fighting to get away and in between the heavy breathing are more and more gasps and whimpers: he takes both her wrists in one wide span and strips her bra and returns to her breasts and works her up until she's moaning and moving and curving up to him and then, _then_ he slides his belt and pants and boxers down, her midnight panties off, brings her hands down to clasp them in his and scrapes designer stubble down the soft skin of her stomach and licks _hard_ through her hot centre and then she does scream out his name and bucks against him and so he does it again until she surely can't know _anything_ but him and just before she shatters he rises up and _takes_ her with one strong stroke and oh _fuck_ she's so hot and tight and wet and utterly, totally his as she fragments around him on his name and oh, so does he within her.

He's not letting go. He's not rolling off: in fact, she's still imprisoned and, hot sex notwithstanding, she is still mad at him. She tries to roll him, but unfortunately the laws of physics don't change for even Beckett's fury and she simply can't shift him.

"Get off me."

"Why? So you can keep lying to both of us that you don't want me as much as I want you?" He's still pretty mad, too. "No. You don't get to wriggle out of this one."

"Me wriggle out? You're the one who does one-night stands and strippers."

"Yeah, right. That's why I'm here rather than still at the party where – didn't you notice, _Detective_ – there were dozens of women, every single one of whom would have happily gone home with me."

"You just wanted what you couldn't have."

"I didn't hear you saying _no_ any time in the last hour. I heard a whole lot of _yes_ , though."

"So you're good in bed. So what?"

"Oh no. You don't get to use that one. You don't do one night stands. You do one-and-done. But you don't look beyond your closed-off won't-share stunted life in case you have to open up and actually feel something for a change. And I came along and shook you up so you _do_ feel a whole lot of something and two minutes ago you were screaming my name and now you're trying to run back to your frozen little hidey-hole _and I won't let you because you're mine_!"

He breathes, and moderates his tone. "You'd never have gone to bed with me if there wasn't something more than a one-night stand. You wouldn't be naked and open under me. You wouldn't have started a fight over the books either."

"You started it. You're the one who's going off to write something else. Fine."

"You just wouldn't admit that you wanted me to stay writing Nikki. You said _but you're going to_. See, you can't even admit that you want that never mind that you want me. Well, here I am and here you are and I've smashed down all your dumb walls and you're _still_ pretending" –

"Just like you are. If you're so keen on staying why didn't you say so? Huh? Who's keeping secrets and hiding away in their own life now? You don't talk either."

"Talking to you doesn't work. You just shut it down every time. You told me three sentences about your mom and dad and then closed it all off and never mentioned anything ever again. All you do is snipe and snark and keep secrets. The only thing that's worked to get any truth out of you is _this_ ," and he drops his infuriated head and takes her spittingly furious mouth all over again without any compunction at all before she can emit any of the angry words boiling on her tongue.

She's drowning in shattered assumptions and sensation: completely overwhelmed by fierce anger and hard truths and hard body above her and swelling again within her. But she still wrenches her head clear and fires out her own fury.

"You couldn't admit that you wanted me for real rather than some one-night stand. You made out like you were Casanova just so you didn't have to admit anything."

"This is _nothing_?" he bites back, and pushes into her hard so she gasps and wraps those heels around him. "This isn't _nothing_. This is what we _both_ wanted and now we've got it so just _stop fucking arguing_ about whose fault it was that we haven't and kiss me, Beckett!"

He isn't giving her the chance to kiss him, because he's already kissing her. And anyway she was going to say _you're the one who's arguing_ but he never gave her the chance because the only thing her tongue is twisting around is his.

And it is _scorching_. He's broad and strong; thick and long: deep inside her and setting a hard, fast rhythm that her body matches: as if it recognises his; as if this is how it should always have been; how it always should be. He's never touched her before, but instinctively he knows her body: instinctively she knows exactly where to touch him and make him growl and groan and thrust: tongue in time with body; overrunning all her defences and conquering her doubts; not that he seems to have any doubt of her, right now, so maybe she's conquered him.

 _So I can be another one of your conquests?_

 _Or I could be one of yours_.

Or maybe they're each other's. She snaps her hands from his grip and before he can recapture them she's locked them into his shoulders as tightly as her legs had wrapped around his waist and she surges up to meet him and she's so surprised him that she manages to roll them and rise over him and now _she's_ on top and in control. This is still a _fight_ and she intends to win it.

She flattens down and stops moving and _damn_ her cuffs are out of reach because that would stop him using weight and strength against her but she can feel just how much he doesn't want her to stop: dark noises deep in his throat and she bites down on his shoulder where it will most certainly leave a mark; her brand on him as he's splashed his claim across her; moves to his brown nipples and uses them as roughly as he had hers. She winds him higher till he's forcing out her name, the word bracketed on a wall of profanity and _he'll_ beg, oh yes: _he'll_ be groaning her name and pleading for more.

And he does. Right up till the point she's lit him up so hotly that he completely loses all control, flips them again and with two hard thrusts and two demonic flickers of his fingers they're both exploding.

This time, he does roll over, but he doesn't let go of her: he cages her on top of him, still without any gentleness on either part. Neither of them speak. Neither of them can speak: devoid of thought and breath. Gradually his arms loosen; her nails cease to bite on his shoulders; her head relaxes to pillow on his chest and he breathes in the scent of her hair. Both bodies ease; the aura of anger dies away: cage and bite turns to nestled-together softness.

"I don't want you to leave."

"I don't wanna leave."

Pause.

"I didn't mean Nikki's got no depth."

"I didn't mean you aren't a good writer."

Pause.

"You've still got your heels on."

"Huh."

Pause. Beckett wriggles slightly to become more comfortable. Castle pulls her up a little and nuzzles into her hair, then draws up each long leg in turn to remove the heels and drop them on the floor. The sheets may never recover. Stilettos are astonishingly sexy, but they do a lot of damage.

"I'm not done writing Nikki."

"I like you following me around."

"I like following you. And this."

"Me too."

There's a much longer pause.

"It's three a.m.," Castle says sleepily.

"Shift starts at eight," Beckett yawns. "Oh God."

"You can always put on extra make-up."

"You'll have to wear shades." She snuggles in more closely. "Night."

"Till tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow."

All she gets back is a tiny snore.

* * *

When Castle finally shows up at the bullpen, having gone home first to groom himself and don clean clothes, he is indeed wearing shades.

"What are you humming, Castle?"

He simply smiles.

"Guess."

She pouts, then grins broadly, then pulls her own shades down to match him.

 _Their future's so bright, they gotta wear shades._

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Prompt from **VJLee** : The future's so bright he's gotta wear shades._ _Thank you._

 _As ever, all logged in reviews are answered if you accept PMs._


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